


The Language of Love

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: My OTP, Other, oldfic, other is alien/spaceship love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Doctor and the TARDIS are in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Love

Sometimes she disguises herself as someone else. Those who have lived within her unknowingly signed away their image, allowed her to pretend as she pleases. She is Amy, she is Jo, she is Sarah Jane, she is Jack. Never a Time Lord, because she loves him too much, but humans and other aliens amuse her as costumes. 

Tonight she is a woman he has never met, a red-haired woman in a long blue dress. She curves in and out, long hair fixed impossibly on her head. Her eyes are blue, of course, that dark colour she chooses to wear on each materialisation. He doesn't know if this woman is his future or a dream, and he never cares when he knows it's really her. 

She lights the ballroom with candles, populates it with shadows. They can never have a real audience, but she loves the attention she invents for them. She takes the gilt and high ceiling from the dreams of his childhood, polishes them into something he could never imagine on his own. 

She loves to dance, the style of movement such a novelty. He pushes his hair from his eyes as she takes his other hand and leads him to the centre of the dancefloor. Music begins from somewhere, and tonight she lets him lead. She smiles when he touches her, those blue eyes sparkling in more than metaphor. He twirls her under his arm and she giggles and spins. She never speaks, even Gallifreyan is too crude for her, too imprecise. He just _knows_ what she wants, what she decides to tell him. 

She sings, though, sometimes. He stands in silence, smiling as she sings with nothing like a language. It is like swimming the most beautiful mathematics, or so his own clumsy languages claim. Not as beautiful as she is, he corrects, and she leans against him with a contented smile. She is womb-warm and soothingly familiar even with these new curves she has adopted for the evening. 

She visits him more these days, her possessive streak brought to the fore. He'll always be hers before he belongs to anyone else, but her jealousy is a comfort nonetheless. She still loves him, even after all these centuries. Her hands tickle heat into his hearts, resting above them so exactly. Nobody knows him like she does. 

Later she fits the body to his and he tries to prove how much he loves her. It's never enough for her, and she slips from her form to slither and slide across his skin, through his blood, into his mind. She rewinds moment and speeds through seconds, catching his breath in his throat so he can't use his ugly words to tell her how he feels. 

He wakes wet with his own come, smiles at her and stretches. She brings the lights up and fills his room with butterflies, each one her favourite blue. He kisses one carefully when it hands on his outstretched hand, watches it spiral to and through the ceiling. 

She tumbles through the vortex, singing her love to the cosmos.


End file.
